Buckinghamshire Folk Tales

By Terrie Howey

Once upon a Milton Keynes …Buckinghamshire is an ancient county of Roman forts and highwaymen, motorways and urban myth.These are the Buckinghamshire folk tales of past, present and future: old tales in new towns, and new stories from old legends. Look out for witches and dragons, mind all those roundabouts, and whatever you do – don’t eat the stew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The History Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780750992824

Terrie Howey

'One of England's best-known storytellers', The Guardian, 2010. Terrie Howey is better known as storyteller Red Phoenix (she was given that nickname as a heritage storyteller in Edinburgh). Terrie is a performer, educator, writer and dramatist, who works on storytelling performances and workshops for schools, museums, historical sites and festivals. She lives in Milton Keynes.

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STORIES FROM SOUTH BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

GHOSTIES DON’T LIKE IRON

This story was collected by Ruth Tongue from a member of the Women’s Land Army working in Prestwood in 1938. In days gone by it was a common practice to hammer iron nails into the leather soles of shoes to improve their grip. This gave us the term ‘hobnail boot’.

Once there was a dairymaid called Fat Dolly, a pretty lass who had an eye for the boys. She loved nothing better than to frolic in the hay when she could. Perhaps to curb her licentious ways, she was sent to work on a small farm that had no other maids, so she would be kept busy, and only one farm hand, a lad named Joseph.

Well, as it turns out, busy or not, Dolly’s mind soon turned to Joseph, a shy lad a year or so older than herself. She knew that if she were to suggest anything outright poor Joseph would be so abashed, they would get nowhere, so she took to making a plan.

It was that Halloween time of year, when people turn their thoughts to things that go bump in the night, and this gave Dolly an idea.

A night or so after All Hallows’ Eve, the evenings were drawing in, and Dolly had rushed to finish her work because she planned to meet up with Joseph just as he was passing the old barn. As he passed her, he saw she was looking nervous and asked what the matter was.

‘Oh Joseph, ’tis terrible dark these Halloween nights. I’m frit of ghosties.’

Before the lad knew what was happening, Dolly had clung to him – a feeling that was not so unpleasant. To comfort her, he slid his arm around her, and she nuzzled into him and clung even harder saying she thought she had heard something. This poor damsel in distress started to make Joseph feel most protective and there they stood in the gloom holding one another, with Dolly hiding a sly smile.

‘They say a man killed himself up there in the barn. It makes me tremble to think of it, but if we were to go look and find nothing, I am sure I would feel much better.’

Joseph, who now felt quite brave, agreed and they were about to set off on their investigations when the straw rustled and moved. Now truly frightened, for she had managed to scare herself with her own story, Dolly held so tight to Joseph he found it most difficult to breathe. Yet these new feelings of love’s ardour stirred in him a latent hero, so wriggling free from her tight grip he pulled off his hobnail boots declaring, ‘Ghosties don’t like iron and there’s plenty in my boots.’

Now frightened out of her wits, Dolly clung on to the brave young lad as Joseph readied himself to launch the boots into the haunted haystack. But with the ample girl cleaving herself, body and soul to him, Joseph’s swing went astray and as he launched the boots they flung around and caught the wayward lovers in the head, the left boot for Dolly, and the right for Joseph. The blows knocked the pair flat out, and they collapsed upon the ground.

When all had fallen silent, the old tramp who had nestled himself down in the warm hay for the night crawled out and decided to try the farm further on, for this one was far too noisy.

When the pair recovered, they had a matching set of black eyes, which took some explaining to the farmer and his wife.

THE VAMPIRE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

This story was told by Stephen, the Archdeacon of the diocese of Buckinghamshire, to the Augustinian Canon William Parves or William of Newbury as he was known. It is a very unusual story, which takes place in an unnamed place in Buckinghamshire in the year 1192.

When the man died in the year of our Lord 1192, his wife set about organising a proper funeral for him and for his body to be placed in the family tomb on the eve of the Day of Ascension. All this was done with proper and solemn respect and after the funeral the wife returned home. Following such an emotionally exhausting day, the wife set about her meagre meal and prepared herself for bed. But, in the middle of the night she was awoken as she heard movement in the room. Opening her eyes, she turned to see her husband risen from the grave and back in their bedroom, making his way onto the bed and then pressing his full weight down on top of her as though to crush the life from her and perhaps take it for himself to live once more. She tried to fight him off, but his strength was immense and as the air was being squeezed from her lungs by the pressure of his cold body pressing upon hers, she let out a terrible scream, which seemed to startle the vampire. So, the woman yelled and screamed further, and the terrible creature left the house and returned unto his grave.

Quite unsure what to do the next night, the woman went to bed with trepidation filling her heart. Again, her husband came creeping in, in the middle of the night, and pressing his terrible weight upon her body. His breath was foul and foetid. She fought and struggled to fend him off to no avail, until like the previous night her screams and yells seem to become too much for the vampire who retreated into the darkness.

The poor woman was now beside herself as to what to do, and so she confided in a few friends, who out of concern or sheer curiosity agreed that they would sit in vigil that night.

And so, as the sun set on the third night after the funeral the woman prepared herself for bed whilst her friends gathered in the corner of the room, silent, watching, waiting. Just like the two previous nights, the husband came again, silent but moving with terrible force onto the bed, onto his wife, pressing down harder and harder. Warned by the wife, the friends knew that the creature seemed to find noise unpleasurable and so they screamed and shouted, fought and kicked until the vampire left that house. However, it seems that whatever dark forces motivated the man to rise from his grave had not been satisfied on that night for he attacked the houses of his brothers who lived on the same street as his wife. There he tormented them in the same manner, trying to press the life out of them. They had heard what they had thought were the wild tales of a grief-stricken wife but, confronted now with the terrible truth, they knew to shout and yell until the creature finally withdrew and the night grew quiet once more.

For nights on end this terrible ordeal continued, first at the wife’s house then at the brothers, and when the vampire could find no satisfaction, he started visiting other neighbours in the street until every house had to sit in vigil, night after night, to scare the terrible creature off. Yet still this did not stop the vampire from coming; perhaps he sought to catch people unawares or in a moment of drowsiness, or perhaps it was just his instinct that even he himself could not fight. When he failed to find fulfilment upon the people, he turned his riotous attention to beasts both wild and tame, in field or stable, until they too caused such a ruckus that the vampire had no other course but to return to his tomb.

Soon people were not even safe during the day, for the vampire was now able to walk in daylight. As he wandered the streets, he was seen by only a few; even if groups of people were walking together (as was now their habit) it was not unusual that only one or two would see the terrible creature. To the others he seemed invisible, and yet his presence was felt by all.

With no end in sight to this terrible torment, the people ‘alarmed beyond measure’, sought the counsel of the Church, appealing to Stephen, the Archdeacon of Buckinghamshire and a gathering of the clergy. ‘They detailed the whole affair, with tearful lamentation…’ Upon hearing this dreadful story, Stephen wrote a letter to the venerable St Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, who was residing at the time in London, to tell him of the horrifying things that had been happening in the small Buckinghamshire town.

When the bishop heard the frightful account, he was indeed shocked, and called upon his advisors, the priests and theologians. They alarmed him even more by saying that this was not an isolated event, and that other stories such as this had been heard all over England; in their wisdom and experience, the only way to deal with the creature was to dig up the body and burn the corpse.

Upon hearing this, St Hugh thought that this was an unchristian way to behave: ‘indecent and improper to the last degree’. The bishop decided instead that he would write a letter of Absolution of Sin.

Once written, the bishop travelled to the troubled town and insisted that the tomb be opened so that he may inspect the state of the man’s body. When the tomb was opened, the cadaver inside showed no signs of decay. The bishop needed no further proof, and so he laid the letter of absolution on the man’s chest and commanded that the tomb be closed once more, for now the vampire would not be permitted to inflict any more harm upon the persons of the town. Henceforth the vampire was never seen or heard of again.

THE POACHER

During the late 1600–1800s something changed all across England; under the Enclosures, the landlords started putting fences around the borders of their land. These places went from being common land, where people could graze their cattle, go foraging for nuts and mushrooms, or hunt, to being out of bounds. Now, suddenly the poor were restricted as to where they could go, and wealthy landowners employed gamekeepers to keep a tight watch on the plants and animals of their woodlands and meadows. The poor became even poorer because now, if they had no money, they couldn’t go out to nature’s bounty to fill their larder either. So, the practice of poaching became common amongst those with little means to feed their families.

The woodlands once covered a much wider area than it does now, and it stretched right across the county. All around, poor folk could see the abundance of food, which they knew they dared not take. It made their bellies ache and their heads throb. And so it was, that two farmworkers, Bill and Nell, faced the winter months with little work to do and food scarce upon the table. They watched each day as their two boys William and Jack grew thinner and the hunger gnawed at their very bones. Bill decided that he was going to do something about it, and the only thing he could think of was a spot of poaching.

So, Bill called up his brother Ned and with some friends they made their plans. Bill decided that his own boys, William (seventeen) and Jack (fourteen), were old enough to join them so that they could learn the ways of the land. It was a cold, crisp evening and the moon was shining bright when they all set off, much to Nell’s annoyance because she had heard about the local gamekeeper. So too had Ned, because the gamekeeper was said to be a vicious one, and they would be lucky to get out alive if he caught them. Sometimes when you’re hungry you don’t think straight, and Ned was already so nervous that they really should never have given him the gun. All Ned wanted to do was bag the first thing he could and then get out of that wretched place before they got caught. He saw that the hill was covered with rabbits; in a moment, Ned had the gun to his shoulder and fired – completely missing.

‘What have you done?’ hissed Bill. ‘That shot will be heard across the woods, and that devil of a gamekeeper will be coming this way.’ He was right. The gamekeeper was the other side of the hill; he had heard the shot and began to make his way towards the sound.

Bill and Ned were so busy arguing, the way that only brothers can argue, that they didn’t notice the gamekeeper creeping towards them. Even as the keeper was raising his pistol to fire a warning shot so that the poachers would turn around and he could get a good look at their faces in the moonlight, they continued their squabble.

But young Jack saw the moonlight glinting on the gunmetal and dashed forward thinking that someone was going to shoot his father. As he leapt up, the gun fired, young Jack fell to the ground a bloody hole in his chest.

Bill lunged at the gamekeeper, who pushed him away shouting,‘I didn’t mean to do it!’

‘Da!’ cried William. ‘We’ve got to get him help.’ So, the unsuccessful poachers grabbed the injured boy and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the gamekeeper to tend his bruises.

Before they were even halfway home, Jack breathed his last, and all they could do was let a grieving mother prepare her youngest son for a cold grave.

Yet before they had time to mourn, Bill, William, Ned and the others were arrested for poaching and put in gaol to await the assizes. Three weeks passed until a makeshift courtroom could be assembled in the back room of a local public house.

The judge sat and listened as the gamekeeper gave his evidence before the local lord of the manor, who nodded solemnly in his finery, whilst the gaunt and sparsely clad poor folk began to mumble. A great cry of ‘Injustice!’ was called out, and the judge threatened to clear the room when a pale thin hand rose above the crowd. It was Nell. The judge nodded to her to come forward.

‘What is it you want to say?’

She stood there looking at her husband and son, and then she spoke: ‘It seems to me that often no one speaks on behalf of us poor, and the law most times is against those who need protecting the most. I may not have the knowing of a judge, or the money of a lord, but I am a mother who has just lost her son, and that brings a knowing of another kind. I see there the man who killed my boy, standing free and doing his upmost to bereft me of my other son and husband. Here stands the accused, who to my mind, not having succeeded in taking even a single rabbit, did no further crime than walk in the woods wanting a full belly. Ask yourself why a man would risk so much for so little? We are starving, and if you take my men then I will surely starve and that will also be on your judgement. So, I beg to you, Sir, let my menfolk go. Let my one remaining son come home to me. For if you will not judge a killer, how can you judge a poacher? Let the keeper be judged in heaven for surely he will pay a higher punishment in the end.’

Upon hearing that, the judge acquitted the would-be poachers. Whilst by law the gamekeeper was not tried, for he was protecting his master’s lands, he was driven far from that place, and in time he faced the everlasting judgement beyond the grave. And what happened then, who can say? But by Nell’s words, I’m sure he paid.

WITCH’S STONE TREASURE

On the boundaries of the village of Speen, look carefully in the bushes and you will find two large stones. These are ancient standing stones. Both stones are said to mark a grave containing treasure and haunted by the occupant, but don’t go grabbing your spade just yet. The first stone is said to be Nanny Cooper’s grave, and the second tucked just behind is cited as John Cooper’s grave. Any relationship between these two Coopers was never found, but it more than likely as both were reputed to live in the cottages that stand close to the site of the stones.

Nanny Cooper

Once there was a little old woman who lived in one of the tiny cottages on the edge of Speen village. Some say she might’ve been a witch, others say she was just a little eccentric, but whatever you think, she was a kindly old woman who went about her day helping others. It has been lost to memory exactly why she did her daily routine, but she was often seen going down to the pond where a tall tree grew with branches reaching out over the body of water. Here she would attach a basket by a rope to one of the branches of the tree, clamber inside and swing herself across to the other side of the pond. Maybe this was a quicker route than walking around the pond or she had a rather strange way of fishing, but whatever the reason, one day she clambered into the basket and, as it swung out across the pond, the branch broke. Nanny Cooper and the basket tumbled down into the water, which quickly filled up and began to sink, sucking poor old Nanny Cooper down with it. Her drowned body was recovered and was buried with the large stone placed on top of her, because they say she found treasure in that there pond, which was also placed in her grave with her. But should you go looking for it, her ghost will rise up and stop